Tin Stars & Lacrosse Scars
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: "I miss talking to you. I do. I really do." {A retelling of the series focusing on Sheriff Stilinski and his relationship with Stiles.}


_**Another new story. I promise I'm still updating my other three! I am re-watching "Teen Wolf" from the beginning, and wanted to retell the episodes focusing on my two absolute favorite characters! This story will look at the series from the perspective of the sheriff, especially in terms of how events affect him, Stiles, and their relationship! (Following the prologue, each chapter will be based on the episode it is titled after. Not every episode will be included!)**_

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 **Tin Stars & Lacrosse Scars**

 **Prologue**

John Stilinski never imagined he would be raising a teenager on his own.

He never expected to be made a widower before he reached the cusp of middle-age. He never expected to suddenly find himself a single father at the age of forty-three. He never expected to find himself the sole caregiver of a rambunctious son who could never seem to keep his nose out of trouble.

When he was elected sheriff and received a small pay-raise, which he desperately needed, and inherited the requisite power and authority, he never expected the bizarre and disturbing cases that would pile up. He never expected to find his son smack-dab in the middle of these cases. He never expected the perpetrators to be anything other than mountain lions and humans.

He never expected to find himself a recovering alcoholic. He never expected to wake up each morning with a hollowness inside his chest – the grief that hurt even worse than the day he lost Claudia, the vague fear that followed him like a shadow telling him he was failing Stiles, and if he wasn't careful he would lose him too. The feeling of being stretched too thin everyday, like the last glob of peanut butter scratched thinly over a piece of toast. No matter how hard he tried, he could never cover everything.

Sheriff Stilinski never expected to bury his wife.

But such was life. It never lived up to expectations. He knew this fact, understood it, even accepted it, but it did nothing to quell the sorrow that clenched his heart each night when he crawled into bed alone, or to silence the voice in his head that told him he wasn't doing enough for his son.

Stiilinksi had always thought Claudia would be the one to bury him. That they would have grown old together, sitting on the front porch in the summer, drinking sweet tea and watching overactive grandchildren running amok in the back yard. It might have been a heart-attack that took him – an inevitable side-effect of all the curly fries and hamburgers the doctor warned him he shouldn't eat. Or a stroke. Alzheimer's disease or deteriorating dementia. Cancer – the same kind of malignant prostate tumors that had taken his father.

Maybe he would have been gunned down in the line of duty. A bullet could take you that quickly. An explosion, a car accident, a cave-in, a rabid animal attack, an axe-murdering psycho – all possibilities he faced in his line of work. Split seconds – _poof,_ and you're dead. The limitless capacity for danger that had originally attracted him to the police force when he was a young man – idealistic and impetuous, fearless; a bachelor without a single person in the world dependent of him. Any of those things could have killed him, could still kill him. Each morning he walked out the door could be his last. A possibility he was excruciatingly aware of now that Claudia was gone. Who would look after Stiles if he died?

For early September, the air was unusually crisp and cool. Stiles was starting his sophomore year of high school the following day. While the boy had never been a great lover of school, he was excited to be returning a rank above freshman and for his chance to prove himself in lacrosse. He and his best friend, Scott, were determined to make first line this year after spending the entire previous season warming the bench. Stiles wanted to prove himself in this sport (the _only_ sport that mattered as far as Beacon Hills residents were concerned), prove himself a worthy player, though he pretended he didn't care.

 _When did he start doing that?_ Sheriff Stilinski wondered. _When did he start pretending nothing matters to him? Stop telling me when he was excited?_

Sheriff Stilinski swallowed his second cup of coffee in two large gulps. Soon he would leave to start his shift. He could hear Stiles moving around upstairs. He didn't want to leave until he had seen his son. It might be the only chance he had all day. His case load had been unreal lately, and with all the recent reports of wild animal sightings and the seemingly escalating number of animal attacks, he often worked late into the night. Stiles would be in bed before he returned, or else out with friends. Walking in the door long past curfew with an apologetic smirk and a lame excuse.

Recently Sheriff Stilinski had started bringing work home with him, poring over cases at the dining table, sometimes falling asleep with his head on the mahogany, and waking at the crack of dawn for an early shift. He strongly believed in keeping his job and home-life separate, but he couldn't seem to do that anymore. Worse yet: he was fairly certain Stiles was listening into his calls. He even called Katie, the dispatcher, directly for information sometimes. He was turning into an "emergency-chaser," as his mother would have called it. Sheriff Stilinski didn't want Stiles anywhere near these cases.

Stiles stumbled into the kitchen. He was clad in baggy sleep pants, which hung loosely on his hips. His Y-curve peeked over the top of his waistband. He mumbled a sleepy greeting, opened the fridge, and chugged half the orange juice straight from the carton.

"No wonder I need to buy groceries every second day," the sheriff commented. Stiles looked at him questioningly, not comprehending. Stilinski gestured with the mug in his hand. Stiles glanced down at the carton and offered it to him.

"Want some?"

Sheriff Stilinski's lip angled into a half-smirk. "No, I'm good." Just like Stiles to be completely oblivious and yet so cunningly able to change the subject. "What are your plans today?"

"Going to Scott's. He wants to practice dodging and shooting."

Sheriff Stilinski checked the time on the microwave. He rinsed out his mug in the sink and set it next to the coffee percolator; he would reuse it tonight when he returned home. "More lacrosse training, huh? He getting any better?"

Stiles shrugged. He rummaged in the bread-box and shoved two pieces of Wonder Bread into the toaster. "I guess. He's really determined to make first line this year." On the surface Stiles' tone was indifferent, but Sheriff Stilinski heard the implication in the silence that followed: _I am too._

Sheriff Stilinski wanted to tell Stiles he was proud of him, whether he played first line or second or, as it were, never played at all. Instead he said: "Want me to drop you off before I go?"

Stiles' eyebrows arched in a question mark, then he rolled his eyes. _He's getting old and senile,_ Stiles' face said _. Soon enough I'll be putting him into a home._ Toast popped. He waggled a perfectly golden piece at his father, and then quickly dropped it onto a plate as it scorched his fingers. "I'll just take the Jeep. Remember? The Jeep you gave me for my sixteenth birthday?"

Of course he remembered the Jeep. Sheriff Stilinski wished he had never given Stiles the damn thing. It was too much freedom for a boy of Stiles' age and disposition. He had a harder time keeping track of Stiles now that he had his own transportation. "Right, right. I just thought..." What did he think? Stiles was a teenager. _He doesn't want to ride around in the cruiser with his old man anymore._ His words trailed off. Stiles' back was turned to him, and he didn't appear to be listening anymore. He was smearing clumps of strawberry jam on his bread with a butter knife. He fingers were long and deft.

 _He's not a little boy. He's growing up. He doesn't need my help._ Sheriff Stilinski felt a sudden wave of affection for his son. "Hey, Sty..." Stiles glanced at him just as he crammed half a piece of toast into his mouth. His cheeks were round and full like a chipmunk. Crumbs stuck to his lips and fluttered to the floor when he asked, "Yeah?"

Sheriff Stilinski's mouth wrinkled in an affectionate smile. "Be careful today, okay?"

"Okay."

Sheriff Stilinski stepped forward, leaning in for a hug, but stopped himself. He patted Stiles on the shoulder and bid him goodbye. Stiles cocked an eyebrow, decided his father was the weirdest person on the planet, and set about devouring his second piece of toast. Sheriff Stilinski locked the front door behind him. He climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and reversed onto the street. As he pulled away, something raw and electric flickered in the pit of his stomach. He watched the house recede in his rearview mirror.

The next time Sheriff Stilinski saw Stiles was that night: wandering, apparently alone, in the woods. Neither of them were aware of it at the time, but events would be set in motion that would change their lives forever.


End file.
